


Lead Me Not Into Temptation

by haleinedelail



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: 14th Century, 16th Century CE, Clueless Aziraphale (Good Omens), Crowley Loves Aziraphale (Good Omens), Crowley is nice, Crowley's Flat (Good Omens), Crowley's sex life, M/M, POV Crowley (Good Omens), Protective Crowley (Good Omens), Temptation, The Arrangement (Good Omens), The Night After the Almost Apocalypse (Good Omens), The Night At Crowley's Flat (Good Omens), crowley can't sleep
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-15
Updated: 2020-10-15
Packaged: 2021-03-09 01:34:56
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,218
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27026665
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/haleinedelail/pseuds/haleinedelail
Summary: It is Saturday night after the near-Apocalypse, and Crowley has, of all things, insomnia.  His mind wanders back in time, as he contemplates his past, his relationship with his best friend, and the true nature of their "Arrangement."As a demon whose main M.O. is tempation, he has had a long, storied, varied sex life.  Torture and destruction have never been his thing, but hedonism and mischief are a different kettle of fish.  It's not surprising that sex would be a huge part of his tempation mojo, as a means to an end, or as its own end.Aziraphale, on the other hand... well, we know nothing of his sexual past, and neither does Crowley.  Though, Crowley has his assumptions, which leads him to make certain decisions... though what, truly is driving those decisions?  Is Crowley being honest with himself?  And just what does "The Arrangement" look like, from Crowley's point of view?
Relationships: Aziraphale & Crowley (Good Omens)
Kudos: 11





	Lead Me Not Into Temptation

**Author's Note:**

> Hi! Back with a short, stand-alone Good Omens piece! It was burning a hole in my computer files - I couldn't NOT post it.
> 
> This story comes out of a head-canon of mine, involving how Crowley gets temptations done. The bulk of it is a chunk that I cut out of "Days To Come," but it was taking on a life of its own, so I set it aside and edited it into its own thing.
> 
> As such, it's a bit of a mess, though it's been "fixed" ad nauseam. I knew what story I wanted to tell here, but it ended up feeling like more of a crescent-shaped tale, rather than one that comes full circle and provides closure. It was more or less meant to be a lark, a one-off, and it basically gets the job done... but it's rough. It's got holes. It's missing a thesis statement, if you will.
> 
> Perhaps it can simply be looked at as a stream-of-consciousness sort of thing, in the mind of an insomnia-plagued demon.
> 
> Anyway, hope you enjoy it!

Well, bugger it. Tonight, I can’t sleep, so I’m going to tell a story. 

It’s sort of the story of why I can’t sleep.

It’s a story about temptation, but also protecting innocence.

It is a story about protecting a loved one. Protecting love itself.

It is also a story about selfishness, presumption, and me being a bastard, but also a little bit nice.

The first thing you need to know, in order to fully appreciate the first half of this story is this: I bloody hated the fourteenth century. Whoever dreamed up that particularly crap-tastic increment of time should be taken out and shot. And then hanged. And then, as a friend of mine might suggest, forced to listen to The Sound of Music on a loop for all eternity. Six thousand years and I’ve seen everything, and as far as I’m concerned, there has never been any sort of Hell that can touch the fourteenth century.

Yes, there was the Black Plague, which made being a demon an absolute drag. Well, to be fair, being anyone during that time wasn’t any fun. But in my trade, when humans are already that fucking miserable, insidious torture goes unnoticed, and anyway, it seems like cheating. Or beating a dead horse. Or both. Or just, you know… uncommonly cruel, which really isn’t my scene. I don’t go in for the showy sorts of hideous deeds; that’s tacky. I’m more of a subdued-hideous-deeds sort of demon. If I have my way, that is. And I don’t always.

Which brings me to Bishop Marcus Ignatius of Bristelmestune. Born 1341, ordained 1365, gained the Bristelmestune Bishopric in 1377. A spotless man of the cloth.

And if there’s anything my superiors detest, it’s a Spotless Man of the Cloth.

Which is why, in 1380, when it became clear that Marcus was on a trajectory toward becoming Archbishop of Canterbury, probably within the next decade, Hell would have none of it. The current Archbishop, Simon Sudbury, was corrupt and selfish, and rather enjoyed spreading bile throughout the nation of England. He was in a privileged position and had quite a spectacular, scrupulous indifference to the souls he had vowed to save. Beelzebub and the gang had him in their thrall, and wanted him kept alive and in power for as long as possible. They reckoned that no-one would find any sort of reason to decapitate him. 

Well, they were wrong. But that’s neither here nor there.

The point is, I was ordered to bring down Marcus Ignatius from his high regard in the Church, and see to it that his legacy, if it ever saw the light of day, was one of sin, shame, gluttony, et cetera, et cetera… all that rubbish the churchy types are jealous of, and think no-one should be doing.

I didn’t fancy it. Like I said, in 1380, life was hard enough. The Plague was more or less over, but humanity still hadn’t quite rebuilt itself. People died from stepping in puddles. Fleas had literally brought civilisation to its knees. No-one had any teeth. And now, I’m supposed to destroy the reputation of a truly good man, who was a leader and a pillar of strength in hard times? Take away many people’s main source of spiritual connection and compassion? Jeopardize their faith in the purity of those things?

Low blow. Truly low. Beneath me, anyway.

But, whatever. I figured, at least I might get a commendation out of it. 

So, Bishop Marcus Ignatius of Bristelmestune became the target of my somewhat reluctant destruction. 

Now, I might as well tell you that the friend I mentioned above, the one who hates The Sound of Music, or would grow to do so during the twentieth century, is an angel. We’ve both been assigned to our posts on Earth since the Garden of Eden, and after William the Conqueror changed the face of England, we were both instructed to keep a post in London until further notice. Other emissaries were dispatched to other areas of the world, but the angel Aziraphale and I have held the fort in the land of (future) Shakespeare, since just after Beowulf.

That’s not when we became friends, though. By then, we had already been sneaking about in each other’s company for millennia. It was just a happy coincidence that we were installed in positions so near to one another. It might seem weird, but you know, angels and demons are not all that different, in the end. We come from the same stock – our souls are made up of the same stuff. The mechanics of our corporeal forms are the same, which is to say, our powers are the same, as is our immortality. We both work for rigid, bureaucratic, moronic organisations that have no actual idea of what transpires on planet Earth.

Suffice it to say, the angel and I had got used to each other, and had grown to enjoy each other’s company. Some might say too much. 

Anyway, the affair with Marcus Ignatius was one of those times when I’d known very well that Heaven also had a particular interest in the case. Heaven does love a good Spotless Man of the Cloth – they’re so few and far between, it’s hard for the Almighty and Her minions not to glom on with their beatifically sticky fingers. Aziraphale was headed in the same direction as I was, toward Bristelmestune (modern-day Brighton) to bless the Bishop’s flock, give them peace of mind as a result of the strength radiating from Marcus, thereby further solidifying for him the road toward Canterbury.

Heaven and Hell in the same locus, targeting the same man. Clusterfuck. Or, potentially, anyway.

But you see, the two sides’ interests had collided a lot over the centuries, and Aziraphale and I had been able to save some time and effort by cross-performing duties, with no-one the wiser. Although, if you ever asked the angel about it, he’ll deny it. He’s honourable and innocent and squeamish, and refuses to admit, even to himself, that he has assisted a creature from Hell in his infernal works of temptation. 

So, each time, it’s a bit like pulling teeth with tweezers to get Aziraphale to agree to do it, but once I do get him to agree, we usually flip a coin to see who would do the legwork.

But in the case of Marcus Ignatius, I simply offered to do it all myself. I told Aziraphale, “Call it my little gift,” and I sent him back to London with a satchelful of fresh fish and fine wine.

And it was true that it was a gift. I did it for Aziraphale’s benefit.

Because, after observing Marcus Ignatius for a few days, I knew exactly what would bring down the good Bishop. It was a particular type of temptation that Aziraphale would definitely a) never think of, b) not want to do, even if he did think of it, and c) be appalled to know I was involved with.

Appalled, though, might not be the right word. He would say he was appalled, but would actually be something more like hurt. And I wouldn’t blame him in the least, and that’s what made the whole business so bloody delicate.

We did, indeed, enjoy each other’s company. And perhaps there had grown a brand of possessiveness between us. Some species of… what can you call it? 

Well, I don’t know. What sort of thing is it when your friend might be hurt to find out that you canoodled a Bishop, and told the world about it? Decide for yourself.

And so, I kept Aziraphale completely out of the fray, as one lascivious act did the trick. (Well, it was more like four lascivious acts, but it was all in the same room on the same night, so…) One good tumble brought the Bishop to ruin. A strong man who wouldn’t have put a toe out of line otherwise, succumbed to a "sin" that was very human, but in 1380, very scandalous. He was passionate about God, but once the floodgates opened, that passion directed itself toward the flesh. He was lovely to fuck – appreciative like a starving man eating dinner for the first time, voracious and insatiable like a priest who knew that for him, there was no tomorrow. The experience was satisfying for me, physically – I thoroughly enjoyed him, and his hunger – but something in my soul felt a little sickly after performing this particular temptation.

Long story short (too late?), not only DIDN'T the angel have to seduce, then tangle the rectory’s linen sheets with the Bishop, but he also HADN'T had to be in the vicinity when the whole of Bristelmestune found out that I had. Once it was over, and Marcus had been run out of town, I kept my end of the bargain and blessed the Bishopric formerly under Marcus Ignatius’ care. Win-win. (Well, win for everyone except the Bishop himself.)

\----------------------------------------------------------------------------

This was the way things had gone perhaps on a couple dozen occasions since 1021, when I first tempted Aziraphale into tempting a feudal farmhand into taking extra eggs for his family. Once in a while, I could see that only a rollicking game of Couch Quail would bring about the desired result, and that meant Aziraphale had to be kept from it. I’ve wondered over the centuries if there have been blessings or miracles that Aziraphale had deemed to be outside of my abilities or comfort zone, and he’d simply opted not to burden me with even the question of it.

I’ve wondered, but I kind of doubt it.

Anyway, as you may have noticed, I’m not like most demons. Aziraphale, and life on Earth, have softened me. They have tailored me to their liking, you might say, almost without my realising it.

A true test of that softness, that tailoring, came crashing down upon us this afternoon when the Antichrist came into his power and set Armageddon in motion. Aziraphale and I did what we could to stop it, and then he wound up staying at my flat tonight, because his own domicile got verily barbecued during the festivities. We spent the first couple of hours making a plan for ducking the forces of good and evil and whatever they had in store for us. And then, we both went to bed. In separate bedrooms, of course, no matter how much I might have liked…

And this is yet another bundle of things that makes me vastly different from other demons: all matters of bedrooms, in general. I have one. I like to sleep in in it. I’ve been in lots of them, and done lots of (admittedly quite fun) things in them. And after six thousand years, I am not unskilled in them.

And down the hall, there is an angel asleep in one. (His actually asleep - I checked.)

He’s the nice one. I’m the cool one. And yet, he’s snoring, and I’m trembling.

Why? Because, with all of that bedroom time, all of those tangled sheets, all of those spotless people seduced, only one soul has ever truly been targeted by me. Yeah, yeah, I talk a good game to my colleagues, securing souls for my Satanic master, blah, blah, blah.

But Aziraphale’s soul is the only one worth winning, in the whole of the universe.

I remember the moment when I first consciously realised it. We're down the rabbit hole now, might as well keep talking...

\-----------------------------------------------------------------------------

We were in the grounds of Hampton Court in 1541, in the snow (though Aziraphale was quietly miracling the snowflakes away from falling on us– it was quite a beautiful effect). I had been trying to “shelter” him from having to tempt Catherine Howard into betraying the king, her rotund and half-insane husband, Henry VIII. He was being an absolute angel, trying to save his friend, save me, the burden of building upon history through blood and pain.

“If it has to be done, and the king’s life is to be further trifled-with, then let me be the one, Crowley,” the angel had begged. “You’ve done so much of this sort of thing… it’s got to be trying upon you. If she betrays the king, she’ll be disgraced amongst her contemporaries, and gruesomely killed.”

“And you want to take that on?" I asked, incredulous.

“No, I don’t want to,” the angel snapped. “No more than you do!”

“I’m a demon!” I growled at him, and I could feel my emotions unravelling. This Catherine Howard debacle had gone on for days, and I had been avoiding this conversation for most of that time. I was on-edge, terrified, and trying to swallow whole a pod of bitter jealousy, like a snake slowly devouring a rat.

“I don’t care,” said Aziraphale, his voice high and worried. “Even a demon can only take so much!”

He wasn’t wrong. The trouble was, I had spent those days at court as a barely-noticed steward, and knew – as I had known with Marcus Ignatius – what sort of betrayal of the king would be most likely to tempt Catherine. And damn it, it had to be done – Hell’s orders. And they were paying attention this time, because the King of England was involved. Humiliation and ruin on a massive scale had a way of catching Hell's eye, as nothing else could. 

But Aziraphale, left to his own devices, wanted to try to tempt her into a sort of espionage.

I don’t particularly enjoy speaking ill of dead queens, but I’m going to do it anyway: Catherine Howard was a cute little duck, but clever she was not. Espionage was a monumentally bad idea. Not to mention, she didn’t really know anyone outside the palace – at least not anyone she could trust.

“What you’re suggesting, angel, will not work with her! She’s not savvy enough, nor experienced enough, nor does she have enough clandestine connections to pull it off,” I continued. I distinctly remember hearing an embarrassing hiss come through in my voice, and attempting to squash it.

“Then, tell me what to do, and I’ll do it!” Aziraphale whined.

Bless him.

“No, you won’t,” I said, low, and agitated. “You couldn’t. You wouldn’t. You…”

And then, much to my own horror, it occurred to me that if I asked, Aziraphale might deliver. If I said, “She’s ripe for a good brush with adultery. Getting her onto her back will be easy as falling off a horse, and she’ll be dead by spring,” Aziraphale was just enough of a bastard (and an absolute angel) to possibly try to do it. If he was willing to get the Queen of England beheaded for the sake of my temporary peace of mind, he might not shy away from the carnal acts that technically, he wasn’t supposed to commit… well, he wasn’t supposed to be doing any of this, was he?

So, in that moment, I reckoned that if I asked him to shag the queen, there was a chance that he’d have given it a go. He’d be ham-handed, but I knew from experience that the angel was not without his earthly charms, and he might actually succeed. Any other demon might have let him try.

But as you have seen, I am not any demon, and me, I couldn’t have it. Angels are celestial beings, and they are not to sully themselves with sexual desires, pleasures, or release. And if Aziraphale was going to break all the rules and throw caution to the wind, and become a carnal creature, then it wouldn’t be with Catherine Fucking Howard! That wouldn’t do at all! 

She would not appreciate him. 

She would not have any shred of understanding of how Heavenly he was. 

She might love his body, but never his mind or soul. 

She could never, ever love him…

…not like I could.

And there it was. It hadn’t exactly hit me like a ton of bricks. It was more like a heavy, cloudy haze that finally lifted, after a long, long winter.

\-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------

It’s been almost five hundred years since that day. Tonight, I’m in my charcoal-grey bedroom in London, not so far from Hampton Court, but light years away in time. When one considers the development of the human condition since then, technology, social constructs, right and wrong, that sort of thing, it almost doesn’t feel like the same planet.

I hate to sound like a cliché, like an old man who can’t change with the times (because I definitely can – better than most humans, in fact), but the way things have gone over the course of the twentieth and twenty-first centuries, it’s got more and more difficult to be sure of anything. Even my job is harder to do, the looser society gets about its vices.

The one constant is Aziraphale. I am sure of him. Since the beginning of time, I could count on him, for better or for worse. And since 1541, I’ve been fully aware, if not always welcoming, of that assuredness. I know us, and what exists between us. Even if most of the time, it seems to be a one-way street.

At the time of the Catherine Howard row, it had seemed logical that I couldn’t tell Aziraphale what sort of temptation would destroy the queen because he might, however reluctantly, still step up to do it. Now, having known the angel for a few centuries more, I'm convinced that he probably would have balked, and that I had just been scared that day. 

Scared, possessive, and as it turned out, avidly in love.

I wound up not knowing what else to do, other than spit out my own colourful shades of vitriol that I was sure would cause any proper angel to back down. I’m not proud of it, but after a frustratingly long go-round, I succeeded. Aziraphale walked away from me incredibly hurt, and after he was gone, I had a bitter cry. I went about my business with Catherine, though was able, ultimately, to get her to canoodle her cousin Thomas instead of me. But I didn’t see any sign of the angel again for about fifty years, at which point, we had a lot of work to do to re-establish our friendship, and our “arrangement."

I’m a demon with an overall reluctance to commit horrific acts of demonic violence, and a related affection for humankind. And I have a stupid, niggling bit of nice that Aziraphale is so annoyingly fond of mentioning. At different times throughout my life, I’ve wondered if my proclivity for him is a result of all of that touchy-feely bullshit (though it’s more real than anything I’ve ever known), or the cause of it. I now know it’s a bit of both… niceness begets affection begets niceness, and so on. It has been six thousand years since I’ve known any kind of life without Aziraphale, and I no longer remember which came first.

And thinking about it doesn’t help me sleep. In fact, thinking of Aziraphale, in general, tends to keep me awake, and having him down the hall in my flat, all cosy in a bed, means that I may never sleep again.

Meh, it’s fine. Sleep is superfluous for me. And anyway, it’s worth it.

**Author's Note:**

> As always, I'm curious as to your thoughts, especially on the plausibility of the story, and Crowley's voice. I am not averse to editing this thing further, so if you've got any suggestions, I'd love to hear them!
> 
> Or, just leave me a comment, and let me know you're out there, and that you had a feeling while reading it. :-)
> 
> Thank you for reading!


End file.
